Maybe to the guy who went celibate for 70 years, but Tony didn't work the same way and wasn't used to so consistently putting other people's needs before his. Three days was an unhealthy dry spell, and that was how long Tony had been in the suit. It had been that fucking long, but that was just another detail. Iron Man turned, ready to tape down a fresh bandage on an old wound, but shied back at the accusation, shoulders raised in a prolonged shrug before he shook his head. "It wasn't--" he breathed, trying not to leave Steve with another reason to never come to Tony again for help, but he wasn't ready to take off the armor. Steve wasn't ready, Tony wasn't done yet, he meant. Fuck.
With his head still bowed as he focused intently on smoothing down the tape on Steve's stomach, Tony let his helmet peel away, dripping down his neck to disappear. He still had most of the suit but he couldn't meet Steve's eye, worrying his already bruised lip, feeling as raw as Steve looked without his metal shell. "I'm just tired," he said abruptly before Steve could comment on any of it, "it's not you."